


There's a Somebody

by Draycevixen



Series: POI fic by Draycevixen [30]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Community: picfor1000, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-14 03:51:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1251703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draycevixen/pseuds/Draycevixen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Pic for 1000 challenge, in which you are assigned an image to respond to in exactly 1,000 words. My prompt is in the end notes.</p><p>Warning: Brief passing mention of attempted rape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's a Somebody

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [There's a Somebody与君同在 (Translation/翻译)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4629504) by [sandunder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandunder/pseuds/sandunder)



_**Eleventh** _

Bruised and bloody after a four hour interrogation during which he hadn't even been asked any questions, and almost out of bullets in the gun he'd taken off his interrogator's dead body, he'd been pinned down in the warehouse's office by the rest of the gang and all they had to do was wait him out. He'd already had to dig his fingers in to his leg wound to keep himself awake. 

He rolled awkwardly to his feet, ready to face death head on as the office door quickly opened and shut behind— Finch, wearing a gas mask and carrying a second one which he immediately started to strap onto him. 

"Let's get out of here while they're all still unconscious, Mr. Reese."

 

_**Twenty-third** _

David Kearney had only been nineteen, little more than a kid with his whole life ahead of him but now he was dead because of John. Dead because he hadn't been smart enough or fast enough to stop it. 

The L train rattled past the window of his cheap Chicago hotel room, briefly illuminating the empty whisky bottle by his side and the gun cradled in his hands.

Worse — how could it be worse? He really was a selfish bastard — Finch had witnessed him putting six bullets in to Reston as he stood laughing over Kearney's body, even though Fusco had already disarmed and handcuffed Reston. He hadn't turned, couldn't stand to see the look of disgust on Finch's face, he'd just run away and kept on running right out of the state. 

He was raising the gun to his temple when the door lock clicked open, Finch framed in the light from the hallway. 

"Put your gun away, Mr. Reese, we have a plane to catch."

 

_**Thirty-first** _

Rape was a possibility every agent was trained to face but possibility and certainty were completely different things and he had to struggle against his own raw fear as much as the three men holding him down across the table. 

He'd gone undercover as a waiter at Dawson's nightclub, discovering too late Dawson's prostitution ring catering to specialized tastes. John had been unfortunate enough to catch the eye of one of Dawson's best customers. 

He braced himself as the door opened, ready to take advantage of any mistake on the part of his captors. 

"Change of plan. Mr. Smith was outbid by a client who has different _preferences_. Mr. Swan desires privacy so tie John to the bed and then get out."

It had taken Finch five minutes to cut him free from the bed and if John spent those minutes imagining the same set-up with Harold, under different circumstances, it was nobody's business but his own. 

"If you're quite done taking a nap, Mr. Reese, we need to go."

 

_**Forty-fifth** _

It was an excellent plan, one that always worked. 

Step one: drink heavily, stopping only two drinks short of shitfaced. 

Step two: by midnight to be over or under the warm willing body of the fifth person (always the fifth) to proposition him. 

For the first time ever step two was proving difficult.

Despite picking out a bar that reeked of pheromones he'd only been hit on four times in the past two hours, three women and one man. They'd all been attractive but the plan had nothing to do with attraction and everything to do with ceding control, responsibility and guilt if only for one night, hence leaving the choice of his partner to fate. 

Time to face facts, he was definitely losing a step.

He knew the mileage was beginning to show, his hair now more salt than pepper, facial lines a little deeper, eyes a little duller, one small scar close to his right eye, another on his chin. After five years working the numbers it was just good to be alive, a surprising thought given how hard he'd been courting death when he'd started. Working with Finch had made him want all sorts of things again. If only Harold— He'd give it ten more minutes and then move on to another bar or just settle instead for the other two drinks. 

He heard the barstool next to him squeak as a possible Five settled on it.

He didn't look sideways as doing anything to actively encourage them was against his plan's rules. 

"Another drink for my friend here and I'd like a shot of single malt."

The bartender looked questioningly at John, he'd turned down the drinks proffered by One through Four, and then grinned when John nodded.

He turned slowly in his chair to look at Five. "Slumming it, Finch?"

"Trenton is quite lovely this time of year."

John almost smiled despite himself. 

"Though I am somewhat confused." Finch gestured at the bar. "What exactly brings us here tonight, Mr. Reese?"

"Naomi Bateman. I thought..." He'd thought she'd been making her own _over or under him_ plans that Finch would be happily indulging. "I'd give you some space." 

Finch looked puzzled, but not for long. John could practically see the pieces falling in to place as Harold figured out exactly what John had been concealing for years. 

"In future, save us both some time. I will always choose you." Finch caressed John's arm. "Rome, Chicago or even in the wilds of Trenton, I will always come for you."

Finch had proved it, time and time again. The only real friend he'd ever had, the only man he'd ever trusted who hadn't turned on him. The only one he wanted. 

"—And if you're too drunk to make a joke out of that then it's time we left." 

John reached for him but he was already standing up. "Harold?"

"I just spent over an hour outside, in the freezing cold, bribing half the bar's patrons in to giving you a wide berth while monitoring you via the security feed, just to ensure I would be your Fifth." 

Harold kissed him, a mere brush of lips that left him wanting. 

"Let's go home, John."

**Author's Note:**

> [Sheep 45](http://www.flickr.com/photos/nilsa/12550345/)
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> In case the link dies, the picture was of a lamb with the number 45 painted on its fleece


End file.
